Death and a Snapper
R. A. Bentley
COPYRIGHT
First published in Great Britain June 2019
Copyright © R. A. Bentley
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be circulated in writing of any publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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A fragment of history — Russia and the United Kingdom
The year 1917 saw bloody revolution in Tzarist Russia, bringing further misery to a continent already at war. By 1919, despite some military support by the United Kingdom and her allies for the White Russian factions, the Bolshevist communists had seized power. A mere two years later, under the short-lived Labour administration of Ramsay MacDonald, a trade agreement was struck between the Russian government and the UK.
The resulting influx of communists into this country greatly alarmed both MI5 and SIS (the UK's home and foreign secret services), who began to closely monitor their activities. This culminated, in April 1927, in the notorious raid on the London offices of ARCOS (The All Russian Cooperative Society) in search of stolen and incriminating documents. The Bolshevists were accused of spying and fomenting discord, both in the UK and the British Empire, and diplomatic relations with Russia were abruptly severed. They were not to be repaired until the return of a Labour government in 1929.
When our tale opens, in October 1927, any Russian still in the UK is likely to be viewed with more than passing interest — especially if he happens to be noisily dining at a nearby table.
Chapter One
They were celebrating in style at Pacelli's, a large and currently fashionable hotel restaurant in Soho. It was a busy night and the softly lit room was well filled with diners. The main course completed, Detective Sergeant Teddy Rattigan rose portentously to his feet.
'I offer you a toast,' he said, 'Pray raise your glasses, ladies and gentlemen, to Detective Chief Inspector Miles Felix. May God bless and preserve him, and all who have to put up with him. Hearty congratulations sir!'
'Hear, hear,' cried the assembled company, laughing.
'Speech!' demanded Sergeant Yardley.
'Yes, speech!' echoed Sergeant Nash.
'I'll deal with you two later,' chuckled Felix, pushing back his chair. 'Thank you, Teddy, for those, er, kind words, and thank you all for this magnificent repast. I find myself overwhelmed. I scarcely know what to say. Just allow me to thank you all, dear friends, for helping, by virtue of your egregious incompetence and near catatonic indolence to preserve me from the curse of promotion for so long. It shall not be forgotten.'
Laughter.
'Furthermore you may be gratified to learn – or maybe not – that much against my better judgement I have consented to be saddled with you lot for a while longer. The team goes on!'
Groans, laughter and much clapping.
'Furthermore . . . No, listen! Furthermore . . .' he looked desperately about him for inspiration. 'Ah! And furthermore, here comes the pudding!'
Two smiling waiters appeared, one pushing a trolley.
'Phew!' said Felix, sitting gratefully down, 'Hello, what's this? Champagne!'
'Detective Superintendent Polly sends his congratulations, sir, and hopes you will have a drink with him. He also sends flowers for the ladies.'
'Is he here?' frowned Felix, gazing about the room
'No, sir; he telephoned.'
'But they're lovely!' exclaimed Mary Yardley. 'How kind of him.'
'They're beautiful,' agreed Connie Felix. 'Will you put them in water for us?'
'Certainly, madam. You can collect them when you leave.'
'Fancy old Polly doing that,' said Rattigan. 'Who'd have thought?'
'He's quite sweet really, isn't he?' said Mary, 'And you're always moaning about him, poor man.'
'I've never heard him called sweet before,' laughed her husband.
'It's Polly you have to thank for keeping the team together,' said Felix, 'The A/C has never been convinced by us, as you know. It's only because he's retiring he allowed himself to be persuaded.'
'Then we must drink to Polly.'
'To Detective Superintendent Polly,' said Nash, raising his glass.
'Superintendent Polly!' they cried.
There was much merry chatter, lubricated by the champagne, as they tucked into their pudding, the ladies glancing about them and commenting, as ladies will, on the people at the other tables.
'This is all right, eh, sir? We must arrange for you to be promoted more often.'
'Do we know who we're getting — the new A/C?'
Felix shook his head. 'Not yet. Probably some army bigwig, put out to grass.'
'Has to be better than Timpson anyway, miserable old beggar. I say, that fellow's still staring at us. I wonder why?'
'Probably thinks we're mad.'
'Do you mean the Russian?' said Mary. 'He's been doing it for some time. Keeps turning and looking.'
'We don't know they're Russians,' said Connie. 'They just sound Russian. Anyway, he's English.'
'Why do you think that?'
'I heard him ordering. Besides, he looks English. Don't you think so? He speaks their language, though, whatever it is.'
'Not a happy man, if you ask me,' said Rattigan. Wants to be somewhere else.'
'With us, perhaps? They don't look much fun, do they?'
They were referring to a party of four men and two women in evening dress, a couple of tables away. Apart from the Englishman, the others, if not Russian, were certainly foreigners. Two of the men, one of them quite bald, sported bristling moustaches, and the other a neat goatee beard. The women were respectively dark and nondescript and tall, fair and rather gaunt, as if she had been ill. Their conversation appeared serious, their voices occasionally raised in argument, and on one occasion a man had half risen in apparent annoyance and had been irritably waved down by another. A foreign delegation, Felix guessed, with the Englishman their minder or interpreter. There was, he knew, an international conference in progress.
'You know, it's almost as if he wants to attract our attention without the others noticing,' said Connie. 'Don't you think that's a bit odd?'
'Perhaps you have an admirer, darling?'
'I should hardly think so at the moment.'
'Nonsense, you have never been more beautiful. A customer from your modelling days perhaps?'
'I don't recognise him. And neither of the women are wearing Lefevre.'
'Village seamstress?' suggested Mary.
Connie giggled. 'They do rather have that look, don't they?'
'The Slavic-looking fellow is a specimen,' said Nash. 'Looks like he'd cut your throat for tuppence.'
'None of them are very prepossessing, are they?'
'The Englishman's all right. He reminds me of that actor. You know — Harry somebody.'
'Oh yes, I suppose he does a bit, apart from the hair.'
They had just about exhausted the conversational possibilities of their neighbours when a bright flash betrayed the presence of a photographer working the room.
'Now's our chance to get one of all of us,' said Felix; mindful that Nash, being of necessity on the wrong side of the camera, was usually left out.
'It's a young woman,' said Yardley, as the
snapper worked towards them.
'Quite a looker too,' observed Nash.
'How can you tell in this light,' frowned Mary. 'I can barely make out her features.'
'Instinct and long practice,' said her husband.
'Oh yes? Tell me more.'
'Not me! The department Casanova here.'
'She is rather pretty, I suppose,' said Connie, as the girl came closer. 'Nice hat.'
Would they like their photograph taken? Yes they would. They all turned and dutifully said 'cheese.'
'Is that the latest Graflex?' Nash asked her, as she handed Felix the ticket.
'Yes it is. Have you got one?'
'I use one for work. What film do you use?'
'In here? Kodak X.'
'So would I. Do you process them yourself?'
'Yes I do.'
'What paper do you use?'
'Hey mister, what is this, the third degree?'
'Will you have dinner with me?'
The girl appeared taken aback, then softened. 'I might do.'
'I'll hold you to that.'
'I said I might do,' she said, moving away.
'Bad luck, John.'
Nash grinned. 'We'll see, won't we?'
They watched her deftly replace the film pack and flashbulb before moving to the foreigners' table. The Englishman smiled and spoke to her, and she had already taken her first picture when one of the others, the bald man, jumped angrily to his feet. 'No photo! No photo!' he cried, and grabbing the camera, wrested it violently from her, causing her almost to fall. Felix and Rattigan immediately rose to intervene, but Nash was already there.
'Give me that now!' he demanded, and as he was considerably larger then the foreigner the man did so.
'No photo! You give me photo!'
'Keep your hair on, Ivan. Here you are, you can have the film. No harm done, eh? Now behave yourself.'
But the dark-haired woman suddenly gave a cry and pointed urgently at the disenchanted Englishman, now weaving swiftly away between the tables. It appeared that he had taken advantage of the fracas to rid himself of their company. With expressions of consternation the whole party immediately set off in pursuit, some capsizing their chairs in their haste.
'I don't care for this,' frowned Felix. 'Paul, look after the girls. Come on, Teddy.'
'Watch out for that one!' cried Connie, 'I think he's got a gun!'
Nash took the frightened snapper by the hand and leading her gently to their table gave her back her camera. 'Sit there and don't move,' he said, and was gone.
From somewhere out of sight there came the sound of a shot, followed in rapid succession by three more. There were screams, and diners nearest the door began rising from their seats.
'What should we do?' said Mary.
'Best stay put,' said Yardley, standing for a better view. 'If they all try to leave at once there'll be a crush.'
'Go with the others if you want to,' Connie told him. 'We'll be all right.'
'Can't do that; I've had my orders.'
'Are you policemen?' asked the girl, wide eyed.
'Yes we are, miss.'
In the hotel foyer a battle was in progress. The Englishman now lay groaning on the floor, while Felix, struggling to disarm the man with the goatee beard, was forced to let him go when the Slavic-looking character noted by Nash came at him with a knife. Rattigan, having detained the little bald man, now relinquished him in order to deal the knifeman a massive left uppercut sending him tumbling head over heels to fetch up against the cloakroom desk. The hotel commissionaire, meanwhile, not in the first flush of youth, had successfully recaptured the bald man, only to lose him when he'd slipped out of his dinner jacket, leaving it behind. He and the late-arriving Nash now pursued him and the remainder of the party into the lamplit street, only to see them driven away in a dark-coloured Austin Limousine.
Searching in his pocket, Nash took out a police whistle and repeatedly blew on it. 'Haven't done that for a while,' he said.
They returned through a crowd of onlookers to find Connie Felix kneeling over the stricken Englishman, applying a compress made of torn up petticoat. 'There's an awful lot of blood,' she said. 'I daren't move him. Has anyone telephoned for an ambulance?'
'Make way please, I'm a doctor,' said a middle-aged voice, 'Thank you, madam. If I could just . . . Thank you, sir. Most kind.' A battered Gladstone bag appeared beside her, followed by a stout, grey-haired man, also in evening dress. 'Goodness me, young lady! You shouldn't be doing that in your condition.'
'Someone had to,' said Connie, wiping her hands on her now ruined Lefevre gown.
Felix helped her to her feet. 'What on earth was Paul doing, letting you out here?'
'I'm not a child, darling, and you're not to say anything to him or I'll be cross.'
'Are you still with us, my friend?' enquired the doctor, taking out his stethoscope.
'He was just now,' said Connie. 'He spoke to me. Has anyone got a paper and pencil?' Felix gave her his notebook, and after thinking for a moment or two she wrote a few words in it.
'"Katinka Vasilievna. Not trust other,"' he read. 'It doesn't make sense.'
'Well that's what he said, as near as I could tell; then he passed out. He was careful to enunciate the name though.'
Rattigan took a handkerchief from his pocket and picked up the Slav's knife with it. 'Nasty-looking object,' he said, 'one of those Italian switchblade things.'
Approaching bells heralded two ambulances; a clutch of panting constables, and three men in fedoras and trench coats. One of the latter, a hard-faced man of about forty, presented his card. 'Any of you see what happened?' he asked.
Examining the card, Felix raised an eyebrow. 'How do you do, Mr Grant? Yes, we did. This fellow was dining with a party of foreigners, one of whom shot him.'
'Where are the others?'
'They drove off,' said Nash.
'Did you get the car number?'
Nash glanced questioningly at Felix. 'No we didn't.'
'All right, we'll take him along. Get them to bring a stretcher, Thomson.'
'I'm sorry, I can't let you do that,' said Felix.
'I beg your pardon?'
'This is attempted murder. It's a police matter.'
'And you are . . . ?'
'Detective Chief Inspector Felix, Scotland Yard,' said Felix, handing him a card of his own.
'I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Mr Felix,' said Grant, glancing at it. 'However, I must insist.'
'You don't have the authority.'
'I can assure you I do.'
'Well someone had better take him,' said the doctor dryly, 'or you'll have a body on your hands.'
Scribbling a note on a card, Felix beckoned to the ambulance crew. 'Kindly give this to the receiving doctor. Police.'
Grant's wooden expression did not change. 'We'll need to search him.'
'I'm afraid I can't allow that either. You'll get a copy of our report, I daresay.'
'Chief Inspector, you are being obstructive!'
'I'm doing my job, Mr Grant. Sorry.'
Grant gazed at the circle of hostile faces. 'You'll be hearing about this,' he said, and stalked out, followed by his cohorts.
'Now where's that damned knifeman gone,' growled Rattigan. 'He should be out cold.' But though they searched, the Slavic gentleman was not to be found.
The constables and hotel management had done an efficient job of clearing the place, and they returned to the others in a now empty restaurant.
'Well that's sobered us up,' sighed Felix. 'So much for our party.'
'Does anyone want that gateau?' said Rattigan, rubbing his bruised knuckles. 'Pity to waste it.'
'Help yourself,' said Mary. 'You're not going to eat it now, are you?'
'Who was that fellow anyway?' asked Connie, ruefully examining the damage to her gown.
Felix gave her Grant's card. 'It doesn't quite say so but he's MI5.'
'What's it got to do with them?'
'That's what I'd like to know. And what were they doing here? They must already have been on their way.'
'Suggests they really were Russians,' said Rattigan through a mouthful of sticky cake.
'Yes it does.'
'Thank you for saving my camera, mister,' said the snapper shyly.
'There's a price to pay, I'm afraid,' said Nash.
The girl smiled. 'You want that date?'
'You got it babe. What's your name?'
'Clare Valentine. What's yours?'
'John Nash. Nice to meet you, Clare. The other thing is, we need the photo you took. Several copies ideally. Glossy eight by tens. Slow it down if you can.'
'What photo? You gave them the pack.'
'No, that was mine. I happened to have one in my pocket. Yours is still in the camera, unless you've taken it out.' He turned to Felix. Can we pay her for them, sir?'
'We most certainly can,' said the Chief Inspector. 'Well done, John.'
'A nice big sale and dinner with me,' quipped Nash. 'You lucky girl, you.'
'Will someone please tell us what happened?' said Yardley plaintively.
Later that night, Felix took a call from the hospital.
'Died in the ambulance, I'm afraid. Never recovered consciousness.'
Chapter Two
'I know Grant,' said Detective Superintendent Polly. 'I've dealt with him before. He was trying it on of course.'
'He was pretty cross when I refused him.'
'Which you were quite right to do. Though it would be nice to know what they've got on them.'
'I doubt he'd have told me.'
'No, I don't suppose he would. What did you find out?'
'A reasonable amount under the circumstances. The dead man's suit looks hired, as does the other fellow's. Enid's doing the various agencies now. Nothing in his pockets but a box of matches and a silver cigarette case, not engraved. No laundry marks on the shirt and underwear, though the style might give a clue to their origins. There were some nice dabs on the cigarette case and the Slav's knife; also on their wine glasses, which Yardley managed to salvage. I got the impression they weren't expecting their colleague to jump ship so precipitately. They just reacted; and with considerable alarm, I might say. I'll drop in on Benyson shortly and see what he's got for us; it'll be quicker than waiting for his report.'
Death and a Snapper (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 6) Page 1